: HOUSE OF CARDS :
PART SIX : COMPLETION
(20) - Masks -
When she woke the next morning, Remy had already left. She didn't mind - as far as she was concerned it was better if she never saw him again. She trudged downstairs with that same sense of Fate looming above her. Breakfast was a quiet and lonely affair, and she could stomach very little. She spent the time going through her briefing notes and memorising Simmons' face. Mystique had no more to say to her; when St. John walked in a little later, even he could find no parting jibe, no snide comment.
By eleven the sky had turned a soupy shade of lilac; sleet began to fall but did not settle. As usual Rogue went through the old ritual of packing her equipment for the mission ahead. It was habit by now to take off her pendant before an assignment, to stow it carefully away in an inner pocket of her pack or bodysuit for good luck. This time she considered throwing it aside as the useless piece of trash it really was, but some irrational part of her couldn't bear to be without it. It defied logic, it was even irresponsible, but she left it hanging round her neck and tucked it securely inside her bodice anyway. Then she left her room without once looking back and went downstairs.
Mystique was waiting for her at the front door; so, unusually, was Irene.
"All set?" Raven asked; her voice was low, business-like, but there was an undercurrent of emotion in her voice that spoke more than words could have done.
"All set," Rogue nodded briefly.
"Good. Then remember what we discussed, Rogue. Make sure that no movement of yours is suspicious, and give Simmons no cause to believe anything odd is afoot." She stepped forward and laid a firm hand on Rogue's shoulder. "I have a faith in you, Rogue, that I have in no other. You have proved your worth to me. Now it is time to prove your worth to the future. Do not disappoint me, Rogue. Do not disappoint the generations to come." She leaned in slightly, her fingers suddenly hard on her shoulder, and whispered in her ear: "Remember - if you feel at all that he is being duplicitous… kill him."
It was as though a shard of ice had formed in Rogue's throat. She swallowed, nodded.
Assured, Mystique stepped back. There would be no simpering words, no heartfelt embrace from her. Yet there was a certain fanatical pride in her eyes that Rogue found disturbing; it was a blindness that was different to Irene's, yet it was a blindness nonetheless. She turned slightly, her gaze falling onto the little old woman standing by the doorway, waiting, watching.
"Goodbye, Irene," she spoke.
There was something in the timbre of that phrase that made it sound as if it would be last time she would ever say it.
Irene smiled.
"Choose wisely, my dear," she said, quite cheerfully.
There was no time to ponder on these words. Fate was calling, and so, with her heart in her throat, she left.
-oOo-
It didn't surprise Rogue that her rendezvous site with Gambit was the safe house. It had, after all, been their rendezvous site for years. Still, she resented him for making her come here as if nothing had happened, as if nothing had changed. Because this time everything had changed.
Outside it was the same filthy, deserted apartment block; she climbed the same squalid stairwell that spiralled up, up towards that same opaque and grimy skylight. It was the same door she stopped at, coloured in the very same chapped, red paint and with the very same number on the front. All these things remained the same, and yet somehow, something was wholly, entirely different.
The door was unlocked. He had been expecting her. She opened it, stepped through; she didn't bother to lock and bolt it behind her.
He was leaning by the window, looking out onto the courtyard below and smoking a cigarette, just the way he had been that first morning when she'd woken up and found him still there. She dropped her bag with an irascible thud, announcing both her mood and her presence.
"Place seems familiar," she'd remarked somewhat sarcastically instead of a greeting.
"Ain't used it since we were last here," he replied nonchalantly. She stared at him. She didn't like the way he said that, as if to remind her that this was their place, their own little sanctuary.
"Is that right?" she murmured coldly.
He shrugged.
"Woulda come here and cleaned up if I'd got some leisure time, but you know Sinny… he's de regular slave driver, don't get much vacation workin' wit' him…"
She didn't even crack a smile, but dumped her bag in the accustomed corner of the room and shrugged off her jacket. When she'd done this, she turned to find him with his back to the window and his eyes appraising her neutrally.
"Why so angry, chere?" he asked quietly, calmly taking a drag of his cigarette. "Don't recall you bein' so prickly last time we met… Or the time before that neither…"
Far from being cajoling, his tone was entirely serious. He knew that light-heartedness would goad her even further, but she was so angry that it didn't make much difference whether he mocked her or not.
"Ah didn't know you were workin' with Sinister back then," she replied between clenched teeth.
"Oh." He was still completely calm, completely collected. "And if you'd known, dat would've made a difference?"
She could feel the blood boiling in her, bubbling to the surface, all the rage and shame and guilt she'd stored away over the years pushing against the dam she'd bricked around her heart, her soul… "Yes," she hissed.
"Would it, really?" he asked, and he was pushing so hard, so goddamn hard she felt like hitting him…
"Why d'yah think Ah never asked, why Ah never wanted to know?!"
"For de same reason I never asked you who you were workin' for," he replied matter-of-factly. "B'cause dat was business and what we had was -"
"Pleasure. Yeah, Ah got it." She turned away, stooped over her bags and rifled through them, looking for nothing, just an excuse not to have to talk to him, not to have to face the lying, traitorous bastard that he really was… And because it had been more than just pleasure, and they both knew it. This place… it had been her refuge, a second home. For all its dinginess, for all its dirtiness, it was the place she had been happiest since her days with the X-Men; the place where all the remaining dreams she possessed had been played out. It was the little chocolate box she liked to feast upon in her darkest hours when there was nothing else to comfort her but memories and a pendant.
But now it was gone, all gone - the bubble burst, the house of cards fallen, the illusion faded. This was nothing more than a room, and he… he was nothing more than a man she'd loved and could no longer trust.
"Rogue," he was saying behind her as she continued to rummage pointlessly through her pack, "if you've got a problem wit' Sinister, I ain't gonna blame you for dat. I ain't askin' you t' like him."
"What're you doin' for that monster?!" she snapped. "Why d'you have t' work for him?!"
"I don't have to work for him," he answered simply. "But I owe him my life, Rogue, and dat's as good a reason as any. He saved me from de mansion dat day, saved me from bein' put in a camp or bein' turned into a Hound or worse. And as for what I'm doin' for him… Well, I'm sure you can guess what it is."
She'd stopped rummaging and stared at her bag, her heart thudding painfully.
"You break out mutants," she muttered. "An' turn them over to him…"
"A minority of them, yes," he answered. More honesty - she didn't think he'd been so honest in all his life. "And it kills me to hand dat small few over, but it's a small price t' pay."
"Collateral damage? For your own skin?" Her temper was flaring again.
"It's a lesser of two evils, I guess." She could feel him shrug. "I don't pretend t' be a good person, Rogue. Why do you?"
She swung round at him then, her chest exploding in a volcano of righteous indignation.
"Because Ah didn't sell out, Remy!" she yelled at him. "Because Ah don't sell innocent souls!"
There was something in his eyes, both a disdain and a sadness…
"Then why've you sold your own, p'tit?" he asked her quietly.
The words erupted something in her far more powerful than anger. She choked, her eyes suddenly burning with moist fire as she clutched at the battered old wooden dresser beside her, steadying herself on suddenly weakened legs.
"You don't know…" she stammered, her voice alien and high-pitched. "You don't know what it's like…"
"Au contraire, I know exactly what it's like," he retorted gravely. "Dat's why you and me do what we do. And if you've got a beef wit' Sinister, I can tell you I got one helluva beef wit' Mystique. How long has she been askin' you t'do it, huh? Turn tricks just for de sake of de mission?"
The flames were still twisting cruelly in her stomach, making her want to gag, to vomit… She couldn't look him in the eye.
"It ain't like that… Ah don't have t' do it… It's just that sometimes Ah don't have a choice… So many of the statics have wised up t' mutant tricks… They come prepared, they neutralise our powers… Sometimes Ah can't absorb information from them… Ah don't have the heart for torture or killin'… Ah haveta find other ways…"
"And Mystique approved of dat, did she?" His voice, which had remained so calm up until now, was now taut with anger. "Did she train you how to use those 'subtle charms' of yours, Rogue? 'Cos I know it's de kind of thing she ain't above doin' either!"
"No," she replied quietly, her voice shaking. "It wasn't her, not at first. It was me - it was my decision. Not hers. Ah wasn't forced t' do a thing. It's just that…" she added in a whisper, "desperate times calls for desperate measures."
"Don' give me none o' dat bullshit," he spat in frustration. "No matter how fucked up dis world can get, don't mean you gotta go sell yourself."
"You don't understand…"
"Yeah, I understand. Mystique taught you t' control your powers an' you feel you owe her. But dat don't mean you gotta whore yourself for her!"
It was the word she'd been avoiding. To hear it out loud, for the first time, from him, the flame of anger rose to a fever pitch within her all over again.
"What do you care?!" she shrieked at him in sudden anguish. "Ah was only ever just a whore t' you anyway! And you know what, Remy? Ah accepted it! Ah accepted all the shit you threw at me, and still you have the nerve to preach at me when Ah don't belong t' you and Ah never did! Or is it the fact that you ain't the only man who fucks me that bothers you?!" She paused, and a silence fell, breaking her, because she wanted him to admit it, she wanted him to own her, to embrace her, to protect her, but it'd always been too much for him and she knew he wouldn't do it.
"Rogue -"
"No!" she cut him off fiercely, her eyes beginning to sting threateningly again. "No more! Ah'm sick of this, Remy - all of it! Comin' here only once a year and bein' with you like it means somethin' more… Even if we wanted it to, it couldn't be, we both know it! And Ah can't deal with that anymore, Ah just - Ah can't." She swivelled round and picked up her bag again, swung it over her shoulder.
"Where you goin'?" he asked, and from the tone of his voice she knew he was irritated more than concerned.
"Away," she answered simply, turning to the door. "Ah don't need yah t' do this mission. Ah can do it myself. And if that means that Essex doesn't get Rachel's DNA, or whatever else he really wants, then so much the better!"
She jerked the door open, stepped over the threshold, and without once looking back shut him out of her life for good.
-oOo-
By the evening, it had stopped sleeting. The street outside the Ritz was buzzing with life - limousines were pulling up in droves; a plethora of dapper men in tuxedos and beautiful, elegant ladies were being escorted up the red-carpeted stone steps, through the glass revolving doors and into the warmly lit hallway beyond.
Rogue stepped out of the cheap taxi and paid her fare, feeling decidedly out of place amongst the crème de la crème of New York's elite. Nevertheless she had made the effort to look the part, dressing in an elegant silk gown of shimmering champagne gold, coiling her hair back into a graceful chignon at the back of her head. Though it was the depths of winter and the temperature had nearly dropped to freezing point since sundown, virtually all the ladies attending this gala were braving the weather in nothing more than skimpy, strapless concoctions, and as Rogue clattered up the steps towards the building, she longed for the functional comfort of her bodysuit. She knew that Dominic had secreted her equipment pack in a little-used store cupboard on the same floor as Simmons' suite, and even now she was thinking of it longingly. She had never felt this exposed since the incident with Rifkind.
The reception area was filled with warmth and soft, pink, glowing lights. The doorman was checking invitations - she had passed him hers, a cream coloured and ornate looking card that one of the Brotherhood had obviously gone to some effort in obtaining. Her identity this evening was that of Marie D'Ancanto, a young heiress from Kentucky who'd recently come into her father's fortune and had philanthropic interests. Her father, who'd been a supporter of Bolivar Trask's work, had made it his dying wish that his daughter involve herself in funding his research - hence Marie's attendance at the gala. Mystique's briefing notes had covered everything in great detail, and Rogue did not find it difficult to immerse herself in the role. During undercover ops like these, she would simply switch herself off, tap into one of the residual psyches that still haunted her brain, and let it do the work for her. It afforded her the ability to distance herself from her mission, yet still retain a level of control. Nevertheless, this was a bigger assignment than she'd had before and she couldn't help feeling nervous. When the doorman handed back her invitation without question and indicated towards the function room, she couldn't help but breathe an inner sigh of relief.
She walked across the hallway with a confident stride, absently rearranging her dress over Forge's tiny masking device, which she had taped to her thigh. The keycard duplicator had been sewn into the seam of her purse, which she now clutched tightly in her hand. To let it go at any time would mean certain disaster.
The sound of laughter, chatter, music and clinking glasses filtered out from the function room, telling her that the party was already well under way. Rogue pushed open the highly polished mahogany doors and stepped inside, only to be enfolded in a fog of syrupy warmth, of lilting voices and a mishmash of different perfumes, all vying for attention. She stood stationary by the doors for a moment, trying to gather her wits, trying to formulate a line of attack, a direction to walk in. There had to be about a hundred guests there already, and she knew that she had to steer clear of Trask in case he happened to recognise her. The best thing was to be as inconspicuous as possible, and so, she delved into the crowd.
Here were several dozen people, oblivious to her presence, her true nature - and ultimately, her true mission. She was their enemy, she was hated and feared by them, and yet they took not the slightest notice of her. As Rogue wove in and out of the heaving, pulsating throng of bodies, she wondered how many of these people were protected against her power. If she were to stand in the middle of the crowd, if she were to spread her hands and let herself be touched, if she were to pull in the innermost secrets of these people, what would she find? Fear and hatred for mutantkind? Zealous and righteous indignation against people like her, people who were merely wanted to be? And if she were to delve deeper, would she find their loves, their dreams, their sad little habits, their wildest fantasies, their sordid little perversions, their neuroses, the very crux of their beings, their very selves? Would she see then why they feared her, why she feared them?
She had reached the other end of the room, where an open bar was serving drinks - she ordered a martini and lemonade, ignoring the appreciative looks the handsome, Italian bartender sent her. She wasn't in the mood for flirtation, not after what had happened with Remy earlier that morning; and besides every last ounce of seductive skill had to be saved for use on Simmons.
Having ordered her drink, she slipped into a corner and sipped at the sweet beverage, listening idly to the string quartet playing an elegant waltz from the opposite corner, her eyes scanning the crowd. More people had arrived since she had - the place was literally swimming with well-heeled guests. The main floor was heaving with people she didn't recognise. Simmons was nowhere in sight.
Where was he?
Rogue fingered her purse nervously and scoured the room once more, surprised when she found him dawdling in a corner just like she was. From the character analysis she had been given, she had thought that he would have been at the heart of the crowd, in discussion with some business associate or another. But he wasn't.
There he was, back against a wall, looking unenthusiastic and wary; the tired face with its ringed eyes, the thin-lipped mouth and the black hair streaked with grey. Beside him were two, rather staid looking men - whom she guessed were his bodyguards - and a plain-looking woman in a dusty pink dress-suit that she didn't recognise.
Now how to get his attention without lookin' obvious?
She plunged back into the crowd, re-emerging only a couple of metres away from him, directly in his line of sight. However, she refrained from making any direct eye contact with him, and slowly insinuated herself into a group that was talking nearby. As luck would have it, it was a small group of fashionable young twenty and thirty-somethings, who just happened to be discussing Hound security. She plunged into the conversation effortlessly, as she had been trained to, but was careful not to sound too well-informed - Marie, she had decided, knew little of anti-mutant legislation or its enforcement. She concentrated on making a pretty, if tactful, show of herself in front of Simmons, only once dropping her purse and taking the opportunity to shoot a glance at him whilst she was picking it up. To her surprise, he was staring right at her, right into her eyes. The look caught her off-guard, and she nearly stared back a split second too long, long enough to give away her true intentions - but she caught herself just in time, breaking eye contact before she could impart anything to her target.
She continued to talk with the rather fatuous group for another five minutes, which was the height of tedium to her. Five minutes later, when she chanced to look around briefly once more, both Simmons and his small entourage were gone.
This was shaping up to be harder than she thought. Simmons was an older man with no known vices - a sober, clean-living widower since his wife and child had died in the Magneto riots eight years ago, a man who was more dedicated to his job than to life itself. How was she supposed to ensnare him? Rogue stood at the bar, wondering how next to tackle the man, when suddenly she felt a light, awkward tap on the shoulder, and a low, quiet and unfamiliar voice saying: "Excuse me… ma'am? I believe you've dropped this?"
She spun round to find herself staring into the plaintive brown eyes of Simmons himself. Between his fingers he was holding up a long, thin chain of white gold - a tiny blue and green butterfly glittered on the end. She could barely contain her surprise.
"My pendant!" she exclaimed. "But how…?"
"Perhaps the clasp's broken?" he suggested softly. Rogue opened her palm and he dropped the necklace into it - when she inspected it, the clasp was quite intact.
"It's fine," she murmured half to herself, puzzled. "Not broken at all… It must've somehow unclasped itself… That's odd."
Simmons smiled at her, a wan, tired smile - and yet the eyes she had first thought weak and ineffectual were gazing into hers intently, searching her face with undisguised interest. So yet again, in a strange, roundabout way, her pendant, her good luck charm, had worked its magic and brought him to her…
She didn't have time to muse on it.
"Thank you for returnin' it to me," she said with a small smile - somehow she didn't think overt sexuality would be the way to winning this man. "If you hadn't spotted it, Ah would've lost it for sure."
"It's no problem," he assured her with that same wan smile; his voice was very soft, almost too soft, and there was something deferential and self-conscious about it. "But it seems a little shabby to be an item so precious to a young lady."
"It was… … A very dear friend gave it to me," she answered, her tone suddenly strained. He seemed to sense that he'd hit a sore spot.
"Ah," was all he said. Then he gestured to the necklace still lying coiled in her palm. "May I?"
It was a split second before she realised that he was offering to fasten it for her.
"Oh, of course! Yes please."
He took the necklace and she turned; he took a long time fastening the catch, and she noticed that his hand trembled as he did so. When he was done, she turned again.
"Thank you," she said.
"Not at all," he smiled again. It was that same smile, genuine yet somehow woebegone; but those eyes were, once again, very active, roaming her face with an oddly calculating look that set her slightly off balance. Still, he had come to her alone, which counted for something - his bodyguards were nowhere in sight, although she suspected they were somewhere nearby, looking in; the woman in the pink suit had vanished. It was looking good. She picked up her drink again and half-turned away from him, waiting for him to make the next move. If he wasn't interested in her now, he never would be.
"If you don't mind me saying so," he began abruptly, yet still deferentially, "you're very young to be attending such a serious-minded function as this, Miss…"
"Marie D'Ancanto," she offered pleasantly.
"Anton Simmons." They shook hands - his grip was unexpectedly firm and strong, and his eyes were still intent on her face. Still, she maintained her smile.
"Ah suppose Ah am rather young, and to be honest, this is all a bit new to me… Ah haven't attended many functions, this must be my third in all… So Ah'm afraid Ah always end up acting a little awkward."
"Not at all." His smile was fuller now. "You carry yourself with a certain… grace."
She blushed, coquettish.
"It's very kind of you to say so, Mr. Simmons, but Ah'm afraid it's all down to my etiquette coach… My father wasn't keen on me going out much before… He said he couldn't bear it if I'd turned out all flighty and capricious… So Ah'm afraid Ah sometimes come across as being a little... socially inept?"
He laughed. "I thought it was the duty of all young people to be flighty and capricious!"
"Ah prefer to read books," she remarked good-naturedly, feeling it was the right thing to say.
"Ah. And would that be your father's influence?"
"Ah believe so. But then, he's influenced a great many things in my life. He's the reason Ah'm here tonight."
"Oh?" Simmons raised an eyebrow. Rogue lowered her eyelids and played awkwardly with the stem of her wineglass.
"He was a great supporter of Mr. Trask's projects back home in Kentucky. When Ah…uh…inherited his fortune, he wished for me to invest in Mr. Trask's new Sentinel project."
"I see." Simmons' eyes, while still intent, had lost some of their edge. "I am sorry for your loss, Miss. D'Ancanto. But - if I may be so bold as to ask - do you share your father's interest in the Sentinel project?"
"Ah'm afraid Ah don't know much about it," she answered apologetically. "Ah was always more interested in books and studying, but, for my father's sake, Ah'd like to learn more about it."
"Ah." His eyes were glistening again, and his smile was more cheerful now. "Then perhaps our meeting was not so incidental as it seems." He offered her his arm and without hesitating, she took it. "For I happen to know quite a great deal on the subject."
-oOo-
They spoke for what must have been an hour, perhaps more - time became malleable to her as they chatted, as she submerged her personality even deeper into the assumed identity of Marie D'Ancanto, whom she somehow felt already existed in her head. Simmons' conversation was more stimulating and intellectual than most of the men she fraternised with - luckily the lesson on Sentinel technology didn't last much longer than fifteen minutes, and after that they discussed books.
It turned out that Simmons was a voracious reader - Rogue herself hadn't read many books beyond Harlequin romances, but there were many vague details she'd picked up over the years from the psyches she'd absorbed, details that floated passively in her head and seemed to emerge when she had most need of them. Simmons, she learned, was a great admirer of Eastern cultures, and soon the conversation turned to the Zhuangzi, a book of old Chinese philosophy, of which she remembered a great deal.
"That's quite amazing," Simmons had observed when she had mentioned the book. "Forgive me for saying so, but I never would've thought a young girl from rural Kentucky would have read anything so relatively obscure as Zhuangzi's philosophy."
"It's not so incredible," she remarked modestly. "Everyone's heard the story about the man who dreamed he was a butterfly that dreamed it was a man."
His eyes flickered momentarily over the pendant at her neck before he said softly: "The story has a particular resonance for you?" It was both a statement and a question.
"Ah think…" She paused. She didn't really know what she thought; so many things had changed. "Ah think maybe it did, once," she finished in an undertone.
He stared at her - his eyes were very intent again, and she didn't know whether she liked it or not.
"And now?" he asked. She smiled faintly.
"Things have changed. Since my father passed away…" She faltered, her throat tightening; but she stemmed the sudden tidal wave with an effort. "Ah have no one to guide me now," she finished simply, quietly, the stone still lodged stubbornly in her voice; yet she was able to hide it.
"And does that frighten you?" he questioned, his gaze unblinking, scrutinising her with a seriousness and attentiveness that she'd never seen in the eyes of any man who'd perused her. She paused, wondering what to say, meeting his staring eyes, looking away again…
"Not really. Ah'm just a girl, a girl who doesn't know much about the world. All Ah fear is what every other gal in this world fears."
"I don't believe so," he returned quietly, and she could still feel his gaze scoring her cheek. "I believe your concerns are deeper than most women's, Marie." He paused and she dared to look at him, her eyes questioning, her heart thudding ominously against the wall of her chest… "When I look into your eyes, I can see a depth there that I don't see in most women's," he added, without any hint of embarrassment. She gaped. He half-smiled. "What is it that you fear, Marie?" he asked softly.
She turned away again. What did she fear? What haunted her nights and dogged her each and every day? What chased her down this path, what did she fear would await her at the end of it all?
"Ah'm afraid of having no purpose," she murmured on an impulse. "Of waking up one morning and finding that Ah have nothing left. Of being alone." Her eyelids flickered and her voice dropped a notch. "That Ah'll have no one to love."
It was a long moment before she could look at him again; when she did so, she found him silent, his lips pursed together in an oddly disapproving frown.
Have Ah said the wrong thing? Have Ah just jeopardised the mission, will he walk away from me now?
She half-expected him to mumble an excuse and shuffle off, but instead he merely continued staring at her and said: "You're a very beautiful woman, Marie. I don't think that you'll remain alone."
Really? But you don't know, Simmons - Ah'm already alone… Ah've always been alone… And even when Ah was with someone Ah could love… even then Ah was alone…
Her smile was pale.
"Beauty's an overrated thing, Mr. Simmons," she answered softly. "It doesn't buy you love, and it doesn't buy you happiness. Even when you're lucky enough to be with someone, sometimes you're still lonely inside, because you know that that someone will never really understand you."
His eyes had not left her face for a long time now. She had almost grown used to it, but it still surprised her when he lent forward slightly, and touched the hair at her cheek in a curiously sophisticated caress.
"And do you think I understand you, Marie?"
His voice, once quiet and deferential had somehow changed into something charged - almost passionate. And she knew, with every fibre of her being, that this was the cue. The moment when the contract would be made. She couldn't afford to let it slip past. Channelling every ounce of strength and purpose she possessed, she allowed herself to gaze up into his eyes without flinching, without once breaking contact.
"Ah think so…"
She said it shyly, uncertainly, childlike as she had been when he'd first come to her… She knew it was her innocence, her otherworldliness he found intriguing, and at all costs it was an illusion she could not break.
She knew she'd won when he smiled.
-oOo-
There was no sign of the bodyguards as they made the journey up to his suite, yet she felt sure that somehow, somewhere, they were tailing them, keeping an eye out for them. This was the part of the game that Rogue always loathed the most - no matter how much she tried to distance herself from the run-up and the subsequent act, she could not hide the disgust and the agitation she truly felt, at least not from herself. It was no different with Simmons. He was an urbane and cultured man, and yet there was something about him that made her uneasy and she couldn't place it.
Most times, when men took her to their rooms, they walked fast, without looking at her, eager to get the preliminaries out of the way. But Simmons was slow, unhurried, and he looked back at her several times, assessing her with his dark eyes, silent and watchful rather than appreciative. And he held her hand when most men did not, his grasp firm, urging her on.
It was nerve-racking, almost unpleasant, but finally, they were there. His room was darkened; he did not turn the lights on when they entered. She watched him lock the door with his back to her. He did not turn when he was done. To her surprise, he seemed to slump against the door instead, his shoulders sagging pitifully.
"Mr. Simmons?" she ventured uncertainly. In all her time doing this kind of job, in all her experience, she'd never encountered behaviour like this. He made no movement, no reply; his was back still on hers.
Is he havin' second thoughts, has he changed his mind?
Fearing the worst, she reached out, placed a hand hesitantly on his shoulder.
"Mr. Simmons… Anton? Ah… Ah can leave if you want…"
And half of her wanted him to give her an excuse not to go through with this, not to perpetuate the tainted and wicked creature she already was…
He made a slight movement with his head, and she saw he was shaking it.
"No, Marie," he mumbled to the door, his voice muffled. "I don't think that would be a good idea."
He turned, very slowly; his face was a thin, sliver of slack, sallow skin, unfolding itself to her in the darkness, and his eyes were black, intent, yet there was still that peculiar, plaintive quality to them…
She stepped back instinctively.
"I'm a lonely person too, Marie," he said very softly. He reached out, tentative, and stroked her neck. His touch was strange, somehow unsure. "Perhaps it would be fair to say that, lonely as you believe yourself to be, I am a thousand times lonelier. My life has not been my own for a very long time. Do you understand that?"
His caress was becoming bolder. She hesitated slightly, because in a way, she understood what he meant; she understood what it was to be living yet dead… And yet there was something in his voice, so soft and so alien, that made her skin crawl.
"Yes," she whispered. "Ah think Ah understand."
He smiled again - melancholy, tremulous. His eyes were like glittering, black gimlets, boring into her own. He stepped forward slightly, pressing her close to the wall, and she felt his body touching hers; to her surprise his frame was more solid than she'd first thought.
"Do you?" He cocked his head, considering; his eyes flickered. "You intrigue me, Marie. You seem wise, and yet you seem sad. One might almost say, I would have found a kindred spirit in you, if we were not so wholly different."
Her back hit the wall. His words echoed darkly about her. And it hit her. Something was wrong, something was dreadfully wrong…
"Mr. Simmons…"
"Shh. For a moment, be silent." She obeyed, not knowing whether it was the right thing to do. He studied her for what must have amounted to a minute, then said: "Yes - you are very beautiful, and the words you speak are pretty. But your face is a mask, and your words are lies. We, each of us, live lies, Marie. I am no exception. Did that ever occur to you?"
This time she did not answer him. A cold fear had gripped her and she couldn't move. His fingers, which had thus far seemed so gentle and insinuating on her neck were now curling about the column of her throat, gripping her in such a way as to be strong and firm, yet not to hurt. She was stunned to feel the hidden strength in his wiry hand, strength enough to snap her neck like a twig if he so wished. And yet she couldn't blow her cover, not just yet, she had to maintain her charade to the last, whatever he thought he knew.
"I know you," he told her when she did not reply, and this time there was a gruffness to that low voice she hadn't heard before. "From the moment I saw you, I knew who you were." He moved his hand slightly, that oddly threatening caress - his lips curled with pure contempt. "So the famous girl with the white streak has done a bad dye job," he whispered, and this time his tone was unmistakably mocking.
Despite everything, despite all her training and all her self-control, she was so shocked that she could not help the small, almost insignificant tremor zigzag through her body. Sensing this, Simmons' eyes narrowed, his teeth bared in a smile that was no longer plaintive. It was cold and callous as an Artic wind.
"Ah. So did you think me a fool then, mutant? Did you think I was like that bumbling idiot, Rifkind, someone who would fall under your tawdry spell and fawn at your feet?" His expression was taut, taut as a wire, a grimace so fiercely controlled that she thought his face would split with it. "No. Troy Rifkind was a fool - he deserved everything he got. But I - I am not so credulous as he is to the wiles of a woman, not even one such as you. The hair is different, certainly, but your face… I never forget faces, and yours is a face a man would not soon forget…"
He trailed off, and suddenly she knew, she knew more acutely than she'd ever known before… She struggled, using all the techniques Raven had taught her to foil such an attack, but he was strong, so much stronger than she'd first presumed or even imagined… And his body was hemming her into the corner, she could barely move, barely co-ordinate a movement, there was no leverage…
"I've been waiting a long time for someone like you to show up," he growled into her ear, his rank breath flooding into her nostrils. "You don't know how long. You muties destroyed my life, and I've been waiting years for this moment, for them to send someone like you along."
She was hyperventilating, trying desperately to breathe against the tightness of his fist…
"Do you know how it feels, mutie?" he hissed malevolently. "To have your whole life destroyed, ripped out from right under your feet? Eight years, mutie! Eight years I've had to live like a ghost, dead inside, waiting, training myself for this moment!" His fist tightened closer still, and she choked, spluttering, but he ignored her, and she saw pain in the cold eyes, the same kind of pain that had chased her for so long… "Your kind murdered my family, mutant," he muttered bitterly, "My wife and daughter were killed by that murdering freak Magneto in his siege on New York City. They were innocents, caught in the crossfire - they'd done nothing wrong, wanted no part in the war he instigated against us , but he didn't care. He had no sympathy for those that stumbled unwittingly upon his battle. He didn't care that they were left in the streets to rot." His face twisted in bitter anguish. "That moment… The moment I went and identified their bodies in the morgue… when I saw their white, cold faces… That's the moment I swore revenge, mutant. That's the moment I knew my calling."
His features, so poignant in remembered grief, changed abruptly - the contorted rage of lunacy had returned.
"For them, for all their suffering, for all the pointlessness of their deaths… It's your turn, mutie. It's your turn to suffer."
He was choking her, throttling her and she couldn't think, she couldn't feel… somehow she was flailing with her legs, lifting those heavy, aching limbs, ramming her knee into his groin…
He groaned in agony, his hand unclasping her throat in a split-second reflex action and suddenly she was on the floor, clawing her way to the dresser, for an ashtray, for a vase, for anything that could serve as a weapon…
She'd managed twenty inches when he grabbed her by the hair and yanked her up into a sitting position; the following blow hit the side of her face with such force that stars leapt in front of her eyes and her vision went blurry and opaque. She felt blood in her mouth where his fist had struck and she gagged for breath, aware of only one thing spiralling round and down and down and round into the deepest wells of her being… That something had gone terribly wrong…
That she was dead.
It must have been seconds later when she came to again, but it felt like hours. He was half dragging her, half leading her towards the bed; she was still partially on her feet, stumbling as he hauled her across the plush burgundy carpet. Despite the blow to the head, her mind was clearing quickly; she somehow regained a modicum of balance and resisted his pull, grasping his wrist with a fist, slamming her free hand into his elbow - finally he let go of her. This was her opening. Channelling all the strength that still remained to her, her hands still grasping his arm, she tried to flip him over her shoulder and floor him for good. But he was ready. He'd been expecting this. With the deft control of a martial arts expert he countered her move, bringing up his free hand to lock her in a fierce arm-grip, driving painfully against her wrist, until, head throbbing and limbs heavy, she could bear it no longer. She gave way with a low cry; his arm clasped roughly about her waist, pulling her towards the bed once more. At all costs she could not allow this to happen. Her entire head was screaming, protesting at her, but she ignored it. Still she struggled, bringing up her arms and pushing hard against his cheek with both palms; her exertion remained ineffectual. He simply clasped his other arm about her waist, the unbelievable strength in his arms crushing her so that she could barely breathe.
She struggled all the more, but the next moment he had thrown her roughly onto the bed; she half rolled onto her back, bracing herself for him, seeing nothing but darkness…
And then he was upon her seemingly from out of nowhere; she heard, she tasted, she felt his grip on her throat, closing in on her, dragging her down under… the world was dimming about her, and everything, everything was leaking, leaking into this one moment… …
And then suddenly, cutting razor-like through the blackness she heard a faint, high-pitched whistling sound, a buzzing that she first thought was the careening of her own head until it grew to a thrumming fever pitch that tore through her ears like the grating wail of a klaxon. And then…
Shuck.
That same baleful, familiar sound, thick with the unequivocal clarity of death; the next moment Simmons had toppled over her in an ungainly heap, weighing on her with a repulsive heaviness. She gagged, instinctively shoving him off her and he rolled, limp, lax, into a crumpled mound on the bed beside her. She was shaking - no, not just shaking but convulsing with agony and shock and horror. Her teeth were chattering painfully, her vision was swimming in and out of focus.
The first thing she saw was the red eyes staring down at her from the darkness, calm, watchful as always.
"Y-y-you k-killed him…" she heard herself say.
"And dis time I don't care what you say, chere," returned the eyes, "he deserved it."
A hand followed the eyes and touched her softly on the shoulder - but she didn't need or want his help. She shrugged him aside lightly and sat up. Her vision was slowly regulating itself, but she was still shivering when she saw Simmons lying open-eyed beside her, a knife wedged deliberately in the back of his neck.
"Mystique told us he wasn't to be harmed," she whispered.
Remy had gone to the other side of the bed; his eyes flashed at her words as he nudged Simmons' corpse roughly onto its side and pulled out the knife with an ugly squelch.
"Even Mystique will have to accept my judgement on dis one," he replied darkly. "Dat guy knew exactly who you were, and if I hadn'ta stepped in he woulda killed you. Dere was no other choice."
He wiped the blade clean, re-sheathed it and then slid the trench coat off his shoulders. She didn't reject the offer when he slipped the duster over her trembling shoulders - she needed it to hide her pitiful attempt at seduction from him, if anything - but she didn't thank him for it either.
"It ain't gonna make a difference," she murmured pointedly, clasping the coat about her, letting the spicy scent of him envelope her, feeling his warmth soak into her bare skin. "When they find his body, the shit's still gonna hit the fan. They're gonna know Ah came up here with him."
Remy was barely listening to her; he was already moving about the room with a self-possessed efficiency, examining first the dresser, then the nightstand. She followed him with her eyes, fighting back the last of her tremors, wondering what he was thinking. Then, quite inexplicably, he began to turn out the dresser drawers and scatter the contents onto the floor.
"Remy, what -?"
"Then we make de crime look like an accident," he muttered. He stopped, turned, crossed the room and did the same to the nightstand drawers. "We make dis look like a robbery dat went wrong." He paused momentarily, staring at the French windows, continuing: "I come in through de window, lookin' for some rich pickings. But unfortunately for me, Simmons came up early from de party wit' a lady friend. I disturb them, end up havin' t' kill him. Then I rob him." So saying he rifled unapologetically through the corpse's pockets, pulled out his wallet, and removed the cash and the cards, before slipping them casually into his own back pockets. Rogue stared at him dubiously.
"And the lady? How does she fit into this crazy scheme?"
He grinned cockily at her.
"Maybe she got scared and ran off. Maybe she got kidnapped by de murderer. Or maybe she got Stockholm's Syndrome and ran off wit' him - who knows?" He shrugged. "I didn't say de plan was perfect, chere, but it'll do for now - maybe throw de cops off for a while." He looked away, suddenly frowning. "Maybe buy us enough time to get de mission finished t'morrow." Her stare was questioning, but he ignored her, already moving onto Simmons' briefcase and carryall. Rogue clutched the coat tightly about her, speechless. Her head had steadied, though it still throbbed painfully where Simmons' fist had connected; she could think of nothing, except that once again he had saved her, once again he had been willing to kill to protect her.
Why…?
"You were followin' me," she mumbled half to herself. He didn't even stop rummaging.
"Yeah. Sorry. I knew you'd get pissed and all, but I got a funny feelin' 'bout dis Simmons guy from de start, and when I get funny feelin's about anyone or anyt'ing, I gotta check it out."
"How do Ah know Ah can believe you?" she asked hard, quiet.
"I guess you don't," he answered, unconcerned. "But in dis line o' work, it's my business to find out every minor detail 'bout potential targets and potential threats. Simmons was no exception." He stood up straight, tipped the remaining contents of the briefcase unceremoniously onto the floor. "I'm very thorough."
"You knew what he was like?" she questioned him in a harsher tone. "And y' didn't even warn any of us?"
"Figured you knew already," he grunted flippantly. "B'sides," he added sarcastically, "y'know I like savin' damsels in distress, and dere was no way I was gonna let dat bastard get his filthy paws on you."
No way, huh? She swallowed and looked down at Simmons' wallet still lying haphazard on the bed. There, just peeking out of the edge of it, was the keycard, the very thing she'd come for. Ah can still make this worthwhile… Eagerly she reached out for it, but before she could touch it -
"Uh-uh, chere, don't touch it," his voice sounded warningly.
"Why?" she queried testily.
"Because we're leavin' it here."
"What the…? We need it!"
"Non." He had finished with the carryall and had turned round to face her. "I already got de access codes." He stopped, then added meaningfully: "I had a chat wit' his secretary."
The woman in the pink suit…
She glared at him incredulously.
"Simmons' secretary knew the access codes to the Pens?"
His expression was suddenly sober.
"You underestimate, chere, what a man may be willin' t' tell a woman he loves."
"Loves?" she repeated coldly. "That bastard loved someone?"
"After a fashion. He told her de access codes so dey could meet anytime, anywhere in de compound dat was convenient. He trusted her. Didn't stop her from tellin' me though, once I'd laid a little of de old mojo on her." His eyes fell back on hers, glittering watchfully. "Funny, how easy it is to break a person's trust, non?"
Yeah…
She said nothing, looked down at her hands.
It was a long moment before he moved again; she still hadn't looked up when he flung her pack on the bed in front of her.
"I got your stuff for you," he told her unnecessarily.
"You sure went to a lot of work," she murmured, still looking at her hands.
"I told you," he replied indifferently. "I'm thorough."
It was no good; the word had been pushing at her tongue for ages, and she just had to get it out.
"Thanks," she whispered hoarsely.
He made no reply.
She opened up her bag, got out her bodysuit. He averted his eyes while she changed into it, but by that time she didn't care if he had looked. Perhaps she wanted him to. When she was ready she turned to find him waiting for her at the French windows; slowly, her legs aching, she joined him.
"Sure I can't do anyt'ing about dat cut on your face?" he said, his countenance now one of concern. It was a second before she realised he was referring to the place where Simmons had struck her. She knew he wanted to touch her and examine the wound but was purposely refraining from doing so.
"Ah can look after mahself, thanks," she answered uncharitably - it was easier to keep the distance between them that way. "There are plenty of other gals out there who could've benefited better from your knight-in-shinin'-armour routine. Or do you really want this mission that badly?" she added as an unplanned but somehow involuntary afterthought.
His eyes flashed, just once.
"Heh. Non. Sinny's de one who wants dis mission real bad. In case it escaped your notice, Rachel Summers is de only offspring of Scott Summers and Jean Grey. Dat fact alone is enough to get Sinny creamin' in his pants. But dere's only one thing about dis mission dat has de same effect on me." He looked back at her over his shoulder and actually had the audacity to wink. "So," he continued casually, "you gonna stay here wit' dis corpse, or come back t' de safe house wit' me? Only I t'ink we ain't gonna get dis mission done wit'out de other."
He pushed the balcony door open and walked out, not even waiting for an answer.
It was only a couple of seconds before she made up her mind, and followed him out into the snowy, starlit night.
-oOo-